


Once More, With Feeling

by FourthAxis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Snark, Time Shenanigans, or Hannibal gets to relive S1 again after the S3 cliff dive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthAxis/pseuds/FourthAxis
Summary: Hannibal sat up, groggy from sleep and confused as he looked around. He was not in a hospital bed, nor the narrow cot of his prison. Or any prison for that matter. The bed was familiar, as was the room, because once they belonged to him before the machine of time and unfortunate events turned it into a walk-in museum for curious tourists.
 Or -- After taking a tumble off the cliff, Hannibal wakes up to a world several years in the past, his memories intact, and the fateful first meeting with Will just about to happen. This time around his priorities are a bit different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for tumblr user [nonexistenz](http://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/) for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange 2016. The fic is several chapters long and they'll be posted through the following few day. Happy holidays and enjoy the ride <3!

 

From that high up, there was nothing but death waiting at the bottom of the cliff, death on jagged rocks or the frigid sea. Will's actions did not afford him a lot of time to process what happened, but before waking, Hannibal was deeply aware of two things – a looming sense of regret and just how good it felt to finally have him in his arms.

And then he woke on a bed with a firm mattress, just to his liking, and soft linen sheets that smelled of freshness and fabric softener, the kind he'd use.

Exactly the kind he'd use.

Hannibal sat up, groggy from sleep and confused as he looked around. He was not in a hospital bed, nor the narrow cot of his prison. Or any prison for that matter. The bed was familiar, as was the room, because once they belonged to him before the machine of time and unfortunate events turned it into a walk-in museum for curious tourists.

He pinched himself, pinched until he drew blood and then some, counted the number of fingers on his hands and sought his reflection in the mirror. It proved oddly difficult to accept his reality until his mind thought of contracting universes and rewinding time, and yet even then it was a chore to come to terms with it until he sat down with his tablet to see the date and read the news. Hannibal spent so long poking for holes in his theory and trying to wake up all over again that, by the time he found his planner, he realised today was the day and he was already running late for the most important meeting of his life.

There was little planning and a lot of bewilderment when he stepped out of his house and the world failed to shatter around him. This was no Limbo either and the streets were just as he remembered them. His car too, and the location of his keys, and just about anything he'd need was right where he'd usually have it. And the day was beautiful with an almost entirely clear sky, the sun shining with a warm midday glow, birds chirping. It provided the most incredible backdrop as he entered Jack Crawford’s office after a short but entirely spaced out drive.

“Not very punctual, doctor,” Jack said as way of hello. “I thought you wouldn’t come at all,” and he gestured at the free seat across his table.

An apology would be appropriate but his tongue turned to lead and his eyes could not meet Jack’s after finding Will Graham in front of him, his back turned, sitting and head angled towards the board full of Abigail’s facsimiles.

“My apologies,” Hannibal spoke after what seemed to him like a long silence where the drumming of his heart drowned out whatever else Jack had said. “Bad traffic.”

It was too fresh for him, yesterday by all accounts, when they stood on that cliff, the culmination of a long dance over five years in the making, and now Will sat next to him with no sign of ever having lived through that life. The mixture of feelings coursing through Hannibal as he tried to make sense of the situation were both great loss and an opportunistic zest, and as much as the loss stung, as hard as it was to simply sit still next to a “stranger” whose embrace he could still feel, it was the opportunities that unfolded that made him downright giddy.

 _Tasteless_ , he heard Will say, followed the shape of his mouth as he said it, felt the word linger between them as it was said under his breath, and Hannibal knew he once had a retort for it, a clever comment that would wedge itself under Will’s skin. But in this world on replay he did not remember what was mean to be said, nor did he care much to faze himself out of simply staring at the man, drinking in his long forgotten untampered state. _Before Hannibal_ , Will called it once, an entire epoch named after him.

The staring unnerved the man, though he never made effort to bring attention to it, or initiated any sort of conversation. That’d require—

Jack left to make a call and in that moment, Hannibal wanted nothing more than to see those eyes again. “Beautiful,” he said out loud, and it had Will side eyeing him with a grim disposition. “Your eyes,” Hannibal clarified and had their focus, though they never quite reached higher than his nose.

“Excuse me?” Will said with a frown.

“Though they’re not fond of eye contact,” Hannibal continued his train of thought with a fairly straight face. “Why is that?”

In another world, there was a snide comment waiting to be thrown back at Hannibal, but circumstances changed this one and Will seemed not to know how to answer. A few beats of silence passed before his tongue staggered to life and his eyes left Hannibal, seeking his cup of coffee instead.

“You see too much, or not enough,” he said between sips of coffee that soured the look on his face. “They’re a distraction.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

The more Hannibal felt himself smile, the more Will’s face seemed to be the inverse reflection of it. “I have my suspicions,” he got up and grabbed his jacket.

“Yes, I doubt Jack was very forthcoming about that.” The comment awarded him with another glance, less hostile. “I’m here to observe your observations,” Hannibal got up as well, “and make sure you can handle them.”

A deep, frustrated sigh came out of Will, aimed strictly at Jack’s absence as his eyes scoured the door through which he left moments ago. “I appreciate the honesty, doctor, but I don’t want anyone in my head. You’ll find no sympathy here.”

“All good things are worth the trouble,” Hannibal said, and it had Will pausing momentarily at the door to aim him one last confused look before he disappeared without a word.

*

The rules of this world were that there weren’t any. Nothing in Hannibal compelled him to follow the timeline, nothing horrible happened when he deviated from it, days did not loop, and other than the memories of things that didn’t yet happen, everything was absolutely normal. There were moments of doubt when he considered he had lost his mind somewhere inside his own palace, its size and complexity escaping from him over night, locked and lost in its grandeur. He considered again being stuck in a fraction of a moment between life and death, but everything around him was so solid and real that it had to be. And of all scenarios to dream up in a dying moment, why’d his mind choose a time where Will and him didn’t even have any history between them.

All that painful history.

He chose to repeat himself and helped Will see the face of his target through the copycat, but he did it mostly to satisfy a yearning for that breakfast they shared in a cheap motel.

“May I come in,” he asked, and this time around Will seemed more conscious of what he was wearing, just slightly enough for Hannibal to make note of it as a deviation. The bigger deviation was not asking about Jack before letting him in.

They conversed over breakfast much the same way they had on their first time, unwrapping the copy cat’s crime scene just enough to lead Will to the moment that truly began their relationship. But the Hobbs family kitchen was far from Hannibal’s mind as he watched Will eat his food after a long, _long_ time.

Will was winding down from a fit of laughter after being called a mongoose, derisive but laughter nonetheless, and Hannibal’s tiny smile reached his eyes.

But so did his hunger.

“You should do that more often,” he said because he wanted to say it, and Will’s chuckled died off but traces of a smile remained as he looked at him questioningly. “Laugh,” Hannibal made himself clear. “It can be therapeutic in the right circumstance.”

Will scoffed at that and rolled his eyes, hand heading for the fork to finish his meal. Before the food could even reach his mouth, Hannibal said one last thing.

“And it looks good on you.”

Will stopped, froze almost, eyebrows reaching an almost comical height as he looked, actually looked at Hannibal eyes to gauge out the source of that statement. He found no jokes there, no ill-fitting jest or snide remark, and that seemed to have upset him more than anything.

It served to amuse Hannibal greatly. “Finish your breakfast,” he said with a smirk. “You and I have a long day ahead of ourselves.”

Will seemed to prefer that path of least resistance, and he dropped the hot topic without even trying to tackle it, like it didn’t even happen.

But it did, and the ripples of change could be felt throughout the day in Will’s behaviour.

“You wanna drive,” he asked, not unkindly. The car was a rental for their stay in Minnesota, but this question never made its way to the table in that other time.

Hannibal took the presented opportunity and the sheer excitement of something so miniscule happening had him almost giddy. Miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but not when pertaining to Will who had notice him get in the car with an absurd grin.

“It’s going to be exciting to peek behind the curtain of the FBI. Are we bound to break some doors down?”

Will laughed, a short burst, and it almost seemed involuntary because he worked quick to kill it. “You’ll find the real FBI a lot less exciting than your average CSI episode. There’ll be a lot of reading and rummaging through files, maybe even an interview if we could dare for such excitement.” He strapped in and passed Hannibal the address of the first construction site.

*

He wasn’t really looking at the file in his hands, mostly just idly browsing through papers as he waited for Will to get to Garret Jacob Hobbs’ file. His thoughts were elsewhere and sometimes his eyes betrayed him as he glanced at the phone sitting idly on the secretary’s desk. Waiting for Will to stumble on anomalies in resignation letters was more than enough time for Hannibal to realise exactly what he wanted to do, or more specifically what he didn’t want to do. He knew the results of calling the Hobbs house, an act born from deep curiosity. So what was the point of doing it again? Now the more lucrative aspect was simply doing nothing.

He did not knock over a box of files for distraction and he did not pick up the phone with his handkerchief to make a call.

“What makes Mr. Hobbs worthy an interview,” Hannibal asked as he got into the driver’s seat.

“Didn’t leave an address.”

“And that qualifies him for hiding bodies in the basement?”

Hannibal’s tone was light but Will answered very sharp. “That qualifies his as suspicions.” He glanced back at Hannibal, smoothing out his voice just a little, “It was the only present anomaly. Worth a shot.”

“And what if suspicion grows throughout the interview?”

Will was silent and a little grim before he answered. “Hopefully he wouldn’t get rid of any evidence over night.”

That was the good ending, the one in which Will’s deductions wouldn’t cause a calamity in an already unstable man. It was also a very boring end, so fortunately for Hannibal, all it took was seeing Abigail Hobbs answer the door. Will’s face darkened as he saw all the dead girls etched in her features.

“We’d like to speak to Mr. Garret Hobbs, your father I assume,” Hannibal spoke in Will’s absence of words.

The girl seemed uncomfortable under Will’s stare and she didn’t seem to find much ease in Hannibal’s placid one either. “And you are?”

“We’re from the FBI.”

Abigail was a proficient liar, but even seasoned actors struggled with the nature of surprises. That one moment of abject horror that slipped passed her face was enough for them both to notice, and as she turned to call her father to come to the door, she never made mention of who they were.

Sounds of oil sizzling came from the kitchen, the smell of bacon and pancakes, a woman’s soft chatter. It painted an awfully normal picture as Mr. Hobbs came to the door with a slight frown, a rag in his hands to wipe them, and something else beneath it.

“Can I help you,” Garret Hobbs took his daughter’s place at the door, closed them half way to indicate just how open he was for a conversation. The slight hostility in his voice was clue enough, though the hostility could have easily been described as someone’s annoyance over unfinished breakfast.

Abigail hovered in the background a few feet away, a tense curiosity on her face.

Hannibal spoke again seeing as Will was intent on observing. “Mr. Hobbs, I assume?” The man nodded. “We’re from the FBI. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your workplace.”

“My workplace?” The father’s subtle hostility was replaced with confusion, but the daughter standing in the back seemed almost elated by the topic. “I quit recently, there’s nothing to discuss.”

“Yes, of course, but there are some irregularities we’d like to go over with you, if that’s okay.”

And that’s when Hobbs turned from Hannibal to the blue eyes that burned holes into his skull. He could only imagine how much Will had seen in the short moment they shared a mute connection, because Hobbs had left it unsettled.

“Do you have a warrant,” he snapped back at Hannibal, door slowly sliding shut under the weight of his hand.

“No, this is—”

“Good bye,” he said, fully committing to closing the door on them.

Will stepped up, violating several laws as he stopped the door with his foot and slammed his hand against it to keep it open. He stared Hobbs right in the eyes, very little space between them, and asked, “Does the name Elise Nichols ring any bells?”

Hobbs’ face was solid and unwavering but Hannibal noticed the gleam of a grease-stained knife under the rag he held very tightly in his other hand. Hannibal made no move, not yet, as the entire scene was poised on a knife’s edge when Hobbs answered negative.

Whatever final piece of confirmation Will was looking for, he could not find it on Hobbs’ face. His head turned a little, Hobbs still in sight but eyes on Abigail, and Will asked, “How about you? She’s your age. Your height. Your hair colour.” His words seemed to unnerve the girl and it visibly showed as her feet shuffled. “You’ve got a lot in common—”

Hannibal grabbed Will’s arm and pulled him away as the knife slashed across empty air that could have been his belly just a moment ago. They stumbled backwards, tripping over the stone steps and landing hard on the concrete pavement as the door slammed shut.

“Call backup,” Will said as he got to his feet and rammed against the door until it gave in, and then he was gone inside the house where muffled distressed voices could be heard.

Hannibal got up, dusted himself and didn’t put much effort into calling any backup. He simply waited for the sign of gunshots, one too many, and when he heard them he entered the house. The scene was familiar but different. The kitchen was almost pristine compared to its previous iteration, only one broken plate on the linoleum floor and…

And Abigail sitting in the corner, legs pulled up to her chest, hands over her ears, eyes closed. She sobbed violently and through gritted teeth, yet not a scratch was on her. The crime scene had moved to the living room where Garret Jacob Hobbs lay spread on the hardwood floor, arms outstretched, wounds bleeding profusely and painting wings behind his back. Will kneeled to the side over the body of the mother, her neck slashed and gushing blood in time with her fainting heart beats. A spray of her blood was on his face, his arms soaking in it as he tried to stop the bleeding, and Hannibal had to marvel how this moment’s painting threw him back to what was barely a few days ago, another lifetime ago, when a similar but move vicious rendition played out in a cliffside house.

More vicious and more intimate.

There was plenty of time to realise those goals, no need to rush. Hannibal’s priorities were aligned a little differently this time around. He put on his best game face and took over where Will’s shaking hands fumbled.

“Go call for backup,” he said softly as his hands clamped down on the woman’s neck, but his eyes never left Will, drinking in his distressed state and blood soaked hand. It was one of his favourite sights.

But as soon as Will picked himself up and turned away to look for a phone, or for the girl, or both, Hannibal’s hands loosened and blood flowed freely between his fingers. The mother had to go. This was Hannibal’s family, after all.

*

“I forgot to thank you.”

The hallways were eerily quiet, very few staff members around.

“For what,” Hannibal asked as he took a seat next to Will. The man looked a little better, less shocked out of his element.

The death of Mrs. Hobbs did not sit well with him and perhaps that was the reason he lingered so long in the hospital. That or his interest in the only remaining family member. Alana Bloom had been called in to handle that specific problem.

“The knife. I didn’t notice it at all.”

His voice still sounded a little distant, like he wasn’t fully committed to the moment he was living in, and his eyes were stuck on blood-stained sleeves. His own and Hannibal’s.

“Don’t mention it,” Hannibal said smoothly, “but if you wish to give thanks for it, I’d rather you come by my office for a little talk about what just happened.”

Will seemed to have come alive with those words, posture straightening and he turned towards Hannibal as he said, “I do need to talk about something… something covered by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Jack Crawford can’t influence me to break oaths, nor does he have to know.” Hannibal spoke firmly.

Will nodded, though scepticism still clouded his eyes. “How much would I owe you for a session?”

Hannibal laughed amicably. “I never charge the first one, and I doubt you have interest in making them a habit.” Will’s response was a snort. “Now, allow me drive you back to the hotel.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Will looked away and down the white corridor. “I’ll stick around and—”

“Will,” Hannibal was on his feet and he put a hand on Will’s shoulder with a firm squeeze. The contact jerked him and he stared a little threateningly at the way Hannibal squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve had a long day and have a very early morning flight. I’d know because I’m on it. Besides, I wouldn’t advise talking to a girl whose mother’s blood still dries on your clothes.”

That brought Will’s attention back to his face and the hostility couldn’t be maintained. In its stead, something wounded showed and Will acquiesced wordlessly with a nod.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The last of his students left and in came the ambush Alana Bloom warned him of.

“I'm not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head,” Will said as he packed his bag, “but I am seeing Dr. Lecter this evening for a session.”

Alana was shocked to hear it but Jack took it happily in stride. “I was going to recommend him for your psych eval. Have him call me and we’ll put him on the FBI’s payroll.”

“My head, my business,” Will grabbed the bag and slipped past them. “I’ll handle it.”

Alana caught up, heels clicking behind him until he slowed down. “All of this is very surprising coming from you. How come?”

“He was there,” Will said simply with a small shrug. “He’s the only one I could talk to about what happened.”

And what happened, as Hannibal learned that very evening, had less to do with Will’s taking a bad man’s life and more to do with the living daughter. Hannibal made sure to offer him a casual conference. The doctor-patient chairs remained empty and their glasses full of wine, and there was very little beating around the bush; as soon as Will took of his jacked, tested the atmosphere, and had his first sip of red, the words came right out.

“You noticed it too, didn’t you? If you saw the knife hiding in his hands, then I doubt Abigail Hobbs’s face escaped your attention.” And Will took a long sip to brace himself.

“She was an open book sitting in the hallway,” Hannibal answered simply, if not a little vaguely. The story was already deviating very far from what he knew, as this particular revelation came a lot later in their relationship.

Will paced the office as he spoke. “Garret Jacob Hobbs didn’t hunt alone. He had a lure for the girls, someone their age, the very golden ticket he was surely saving for last.”

“Have you shared these thoughts with Jack?” Hannibal carefully breached the gap between them, casual in his step. Where once he would stand back and allow him space, now he had difficulty keeping away, with dreams and memories of their previous life constantly reminding him of what was and what he missed most.

Will turned, watched him approach and did not seem troubled by it. On the contrary, he pulled closer as well and brought his voice down. “Bodies were never found and those families are still looking for someone to blame, even with the killer two feet under.” Hannibal took note of just how easily that little detail slipped past Will, but he made no mention of it, as the other had more to say. “The media would crucify the girl, and I doubt Jack would do much to stop it.”

He stopped there, looking for something on Hannibal’s face, some confirmation that they were on the same page.

“She’s young,” Hannibal said with a great deal of empathy, eyes downcast, “and a victim of her own survival. The circumstance is unfairly against her.”

As if he had spoken just the right words, Will’s eyes lit up with understanding. “I’m keeping quiet for now.”

“Good. And I’d suggest we talk to the girl.”

The ‘we’ did not go unnoticed, but Will agreed with a nod. He then emptied his glass, gave it to Hannibal, and changed the subject.

“Speaking of Jack,” and his tone was back to normal, as was the distance as he continued walking around the office. “He requested a psychological evaluation before I can return to work,” he reached Hannibal’s desk and knocked on wood as he passed it by, “and I don’t much enjoy those.”

“Would you like it done now,” Hannibal traced his footsteps, but circled the desk and sat in his chair, hands steepled.

Will turned with a sharp look in his eyes. “I thought you said this wouldn’t be a session.”

“You don’t need a session to get an evaluation.”

Hannibal pulled out a paper and started writing. Curiosity pulled Will towards the desk again and he watched him write out a report, sign it and stamp it. Hannibal turned the paper and slid it towards Will, his only words being, “Congratulations.”

“Are,” and Will laughed as he looked up from the paper to the man dressed in a sharp suit and smiling languidly like nothing odd had just happen. “Are you rubber stamping me?”

“I am.”

“That’s illegal.” Amusement persisted in Will’s voice.

“So is withholding vital information surrounding an active case, I’d assume.”

Will chuckled darkly and looked down at the paper, his one-way ticket back to the field. “I’m good at what I do. I save lives,” was his excuse, his way of making this make sense. His finger tapped the paper and he added, “This will save lives.”

After a few beats of silence Will looked up again and asked in earnest, “How much do I owe you?”

“Pay me back in conversations. I’d like to be sure my rubber stamping does not end up doing you more ill than it should.” Hannibal put on his best smile, not too bold and not too flashy with just the right amount of warmth. He didn’t have to fake it though, he only had to let himself feel what he’d usually feel in Will’s presence.

“Did Jack arrange this?”

“He tried, but I refused.” Will didn’t have to ask why, his face spoke the question for him. “I enjoy talking to you, and I’d rather enjoy it without the shadow of your boss looming over us.”

Will chuckled again, almost impressed. “Jack has a knack of getting what he wants.”

“Like you in the field?” Will gave him an odd look. “You may be good at what you do, Will, but you don’t like it. It’s an uncomfortable experience, and I’ve seen it first-hand.”

“That has nothing to do with Jack.”

“You’re right, it has a lot to do with you as well. I doubt you say no to him nearly as much as you should.”

Will fumed, but he fumed quietly, stung by the words that hit awfully close to home. But the scowl did not discourage Hannibal. He knew the look well and found it almost lovable.

“I could help you,” Hannibal said with more softness in his words, “I could be your paddle through harsh experiences.”

“With conversations,” Will said, dripping with cynicism.

“Yes.”

“That you don’t intend to charge.”

“Correct.”

Will walked up to his table and looked directly at him with no small amount of suspicion. “What’s the catch? What do you get from this?”

Hannibal sat back, lowered his eyes under the scrutiny, pretending to think when all the while he knew exactly what he was going to say. “I find you very interesting, Will, and I enjoyed your company.” The last bit he added boldly with a smile, “And I’d like to enjoy it again.”

At all that earnestness, Will just scoffed like half the meaning of his words was yet to dawn on him. “You barely know me.”

Oh, if only he knew. Hannibal’s smile turned only a little more wicked as he said, “We should fix that.”

*

Abigail was more closed and reserved now that she ever was in the previous world. The clever girl knew they knew, and shut herself off with a faking lack of interest and motivation, a typical asocial response to a trauma neither of them truly bought. A bit of simple honesty and pressure could crack her armour, but first Hannibal would prefer Will fully on his side.

They had scheduled a conversation that evening and, just as Will reached his office, Hannibal was putting on his coat.

“Why have it in the office,” Hannibal asked, “if they’re just conversations?”

Will had no answer for that, other than to once more proclaim how ridiculous this arrangement was. And yet, he followed Hannibal to the car and then to the bar which was, in Hannibal’s own words, a very causal place.

Or the closest he could get his own taste to align with Will’s. It was a bar, yes, they served beer and other such common drinks, true, but they also had a more luxurious catalogue as well, a female pianist in a lavish dress playing on stage, comfortable leather booth seating and mahogany tables.

The patrons weren’t loud and obnoxious, each sitting in their own little world exchanging quiet secrets with their drinking partners, but the two still chose a remote corner of the bar with not a soul around. The isolation had Will talking quickly, though the beer helped too. They exchanged old familiar pleasantries in the form of crime scene analysis, a walk through the mind of whatever beast Jack had Will hunting that week, and the difficulties of his gift now that he had pulled the trigger.

And in the spaces between words, Hannibal’s thoughts started wandering but first it was his eyes that wandered.

There were no scars on Will. Never had he received that bone saw gash on his skull, or the little cut above his cheek bone. There were no gunshot wounds in his right or left shoulder, and there was no smile on his belly to remind him of Hannibal. This Will had never seen Florence, never chased him there, never betrayed him or cast him away, never fought the Dragon with him. So many memories, good and bad, tied them together so neatly in one unique tapestry that was now gone, burned away. That Will was gone, _his_ Will, lost to a time line that had already deviated, and an overwhelming melancholy filled Hannibal, a sadness for all that once was. For the dead.

He had to remind himself several times that what sit across him was not a copy, but the very same thing he yearned for. And he could get it all back with time and effort, all of it in different strokes and colours, yet the same soul at its centre.

Will had gone quiet somewhere amidst their conversation and Hannibal tilted his head in a silent question, hoping his own gloom did not escape from the mask he held.

“I enjoyed it,” Will said, eyeing the bottom of his beer glass like he hoped more would conjure and help him lubricate the words out of his throat. “I enjoyed what I did to Hobbs.”

“I know,” and that earned Hannibal a look right in the eyes, sharp and questioning. “It’s a powerful feeling, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It feels like it should.”

“Why?”

“I feel like I might do it again.”

And in that moment Hannibal had felt the dead rise from their graves. He aimed for a smile that was placating but perhaps he showed a little much because Will’s eyes had to hide back to the bottom of his glass. He signalled the waiter for another round.

“I should have stuck to fixing boat motors,” Will said before gulping down more of that fancy red beer, a quick smirk his only thanks for the second round.

Hannibal reached out, daring to be tactile when common sense told him otherwise. He didn’t quite land his hand over Will’s, but he gripped the other’s arm instead, tight and reassuring. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Will. Nothing wrong with the way you think or feel.”

“You sure about that,” Will asked in an almost mocking tone, but never tried to pull his arm away. “I can’t get it out of my head, and I see him dying over and over. And maybe not today, but tomorrow or the day after, it could infect my work and I–”

The hand on his arm squeezed tighter. “That’s what I’m here for, Will. I won’t let that happen.”

Hannibal thought of the aspirin he saw him gulp down like candy back in the car.

*

Their next conversation started in Will’s office.

Hannibal came earlier to watch him teach. He was giving a lesson on Hobbs, on the mundane way he’d found him, and the less mundane conclusion of the story. He even touched on the one-off copycat and his uniquely untraceable profile. But unlike the first time, Hannibal felt little motivation to continue their song-and-dance routine the old fashion way when there were clearly better routes.

Will may have actively been ignoring his advances, but he wasn’t immune to them, and it showed in his behaviour. His words could still be a cynical hodgepodge of insults, but he’d never back away when Hannibal would come too close for comfort, and he’d hold his eyes more often than he wouldn’t.

That evening, as the classroom cleared up, Will waited with arms crossed and leaning against his table, an eyebrow raised in question. He said nothing, so Hannibal stepped up as the last of his students trickled out, the door clicking behind them.

“I wanted to see where you work, so here I am.”

Will gestured at the classroom with one hand. “Impressed?”

“With the classroom?” Hannibal came to a stop with two steps between them, casting a glance around. “Not so much. Your lecture, on the other hand—”

“Oh, spare me,” Will pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, dismissing his barely formed compliment before he’d even heard it.

“You lecture, on the other hand,” Hannibal continued with a clever spin, “could be improved if you’d talk with the students instead of at them.”

Will actually seemed impressed for a moment. A glint in his eyes betrayed him if the barely-there smile couldn’t. “Clever,” he said as he reached for the bottle of aspirin in his jacket, “but not gonna happen.” He crushed the pill between his teeth and swallowed. “Coffee?”

“Not the one from the machine, I hope,” and Hannibal didn’t even have to act to look appalled.

“I’m not a monster,” Will said.

 _I’m not a monster_ , Will said and yet he took him to the nearest McDonald's, and sitting outside on the cold empty terrace was little comfort. Well after their extremities had gone numb from cold, when the coffee had lost all its taste and heat, when they were done talking about mushroom gardens and dead families, their conversation took on a more personal touch.

The talk of families stirred Hannibal to share his, or what little he remembered of them when they were alive. He even mentioned his sister and her untimely passing, and all the while Will listened in silence, not a trace of pity on his face, just understanding.

“I can’t connect to the concept of family,” he admitted when Hannibal had gone silent. “I never had much of a reference, what with a missing mother and a father that was too busy providing.”

“But you’d like one, a family.”

Hannibal made the mistake of not framing that as a question, and Will went from zero to riled very quickly. “Don’t insult me. You know damn well I wouldn’t fit in that kind of life.”

“I’d beg to differ,” Hannibal stuck to his guns. “You lie and divert your boss from the truth to keep a guilty young girl safe. Where do you think that protectiveness is coming from?”

“If this has something to do with killing her father, then you’ve got—”

“You can lie to yourself, Will, but not to me,” Hannibal said sharply. The other man silenced but the grim scowl did not melt from his face. “You think of her often, don’t you?”

Will scrunched the paper cup in his hand and tossed it over to the bin several feet away, missing. He sighed and sat back, eyes stuck on the intricate patterns of Hannibal’s tie. “I think of ways to help navigate this shitty hand life has dealt her.”

“So do I,” Eyes travelled a little further up Hannibal’s face. “We’re the only ones who can help her now.”

Will couldn’t suppress his sour smile. “That’d make us one really fucked up family.”

“Yes,” Hannibal grinned, “yes it would.”

Before they parted, Hannibal watched him chew down another aspirin, and on his drive back home he searched his memories and counted down the days.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in my next magic trick, watch as I hand-wave a lot of interesting plot stuff and myopically focus on the ship like nothing else exists. I'm truly shocked and loving the reception for this fic, but I want you guys to know that this is a project I put together in 20 days, hence the plot condensation and hand-wavyness. The concept itself deserves a long-form fic and at least a month of outline crafting but alas XD;; aint nobody got time for that. So here we are in in quasi-romcom territory. I think.

 

It was incredibly easy to slip back into the routine of his old life, from fulfilling his socialite duties and once again cooking gourmet meals in his own kitchen, to going to work and juggling his patients. But it didn’t hold as much lustre as it used to, it didn’t satisfy completely. Even his hunting nature subsided, as a different sort of hunt occupied his full attention.

Something was missing in his life to feel whole again, or more precisely someone.

Will Graham came to him very early in the morning on the exact day he was expecting him to come. The evening prior, Hannibal had to fight off the urge to drive out to Wolf Trap in the middle of night and find him sleepwalking down the road, and he managed only because he couldn’t think of a proper excuse. Some hours later and there he was, sitting by the counter in his kitchen at barely 8AM, nursing a strong hot coffee and unknowingly waiting to be served breakfast.

“Could it be a seizure,” Will asked, jacket still on and a daze muddling his eyes like he wasn’t done waking up. “Or stress?”

Hannibal was in his pyjamas, no bathrobe, sleeves rolled up as he chopped pancetta for the egg scramble. He paused in order to put on a face of thoughtfulness, but he already knew what he was going to say and needed to give the words a little time and thought for authenticity. The silence unnerved Will and he started listing possible causes he’d googled that morning.

“Do you still have headaches,” Hannibal asked as if he hadn’t kept track of all the aspirin Will had been taking in his presence. The other man nodded and Hannibal went through another moment of fake contemplation. “Sleep walking, excessively vivid dreams, headaches… Do you know what this sounds like to me?”

“That my work is getting to me?”

“It could be post-traumatic stress disorder,” Hannibal nodded, “but it could just as easily be something neurological.”

Will’s mouth shaped an o, curious when Hannibal’s voice leaned more firmly towards the neurological condition.

“I doubt work is causing this instability, as much as it may be taxing, but you might be coming down with something,” Hannibal said as he gathered the cubed pancetta and threw it in the hot pan. “I’ll leave you a recommendation with a friend of mine, a neurologist, and I’d suggest scheduling a check-up. You wouldn’t want to play with your health.”

He kept saying things that Will often had no answer for, that left him curious about the Hannibal’s motivations. He even looked confused when Hannibal slid a spiced up English breakfast under his nose, though that might have been the circumstance of his poor sleep.

“Oh no, I can’t—”

“I’ve made too much,” Hannibal took a seat on the stool next to him. “Be a dear and help me out,” he smiled as he said it.

After a fake staring contest with his meal, Will looked like he was about to conjure up the words to ask about the awkward elephant that’s been walking around them. But when the silence stretched to something uncomfortable, he let it go and grabbed the fork.

“It’s delicious.”

“I know.”

Will laughed and let silence fill their stomachs for a few moments before he asked a different kind of question, somewhere in the vicinity of the aforementioned elephant.

“How come you aren’t married,” he asked and aimed a look at the man eating next to him. “Hiding some skeletons?”

There wasn’t an ounce of humour in his voice and it amused Hannibal greatly just how unapologetic his beloved could be. Even his eyes looked like they were searching for truth in Hannibal, so truth is what he gave him.

“Aren’t we all,” Hannibal said, a truth in the barest meaning of the word, but it served Will well enough as he nodded and looked back onto his plate. “I never quite found who I was looking for,” Hannibal continued to answer his question after another bite, “but I’m always looking.”

“Still holding out hope?”

“I think I’m on the verge of a discovery.”

“I think you’re on the verge of a disappointment,” the words breezed out cool and level-headed, like Will was talking about someone other than himself.

Hannibal had to suppose there was always the possibility of that being true. In their past lives, the love between them grew slowly and exponentially into something too bright for that world to hold together, and Hannibal never discovered if it was more than just an emotional bond. Oh, not that it mattered; he’d work with any hand he was dealt with, so long as he had Will by his side.

“Ever struggled with abandonment, Will?”

“I surround myself with dogs. I don’t know the meaning of it,” something acidic came out with those words and Will seemed mildly upset he let it slip.

“I have,” and Hannibal thought back to the cold rejection he had received on Will’s bedside one snowy winter morning after he’d dressed him and put him to sleep, and then he sought even further back the scent of Freddie Lounds’ perfume. “But I found ways to work around it,” his grin turned a little too devious, “so no, I don’t believe there’ll be a disappointment.”

They exchanged a look through the corners of their eyes and at first it seemed like Will might bite with interest, but then he was checking his watch. He got in a few more bites of meat and eggs while offering excuses, and then he was off to teach a class with his head still up in the clouds.

Will’s promise to call Dr. Sutcliffe served as a good-bye and Hannibal called out, “Dive safely,” before closing the door.

*

The last time he made this dish for Will, the hospital they had it in was a lot more gaudy. This one was another one of his recommendations.

“Am I disturbing?”

Will had one eye lazily opened, aimed somewhere between the window and the TV set. “I’m losing my mind,” he mumbled with a groggy voice as Hannibal let himself into his hospital room.

Promising something and sticking to it were two different things, but Will surprisingly took more initiative than Hannibal would have expected. He figured there’d be some dodging of the subject until Hannibal would’ve made the appointment himself, but Will was on it as soon as the Angel Maker case was closed. The threat of tumours and madness seemed to be enough of a catalyst, and soon Hannibal received a call from an old friend. Some pleasantries and half a Jamón ibérico later, Will was bumped up to the top of the list. It felt almost odd to let Donald live, but there was no name calling this time, just some tedious talk about the old days and a hammed-up bribe. For his effort, Hannibal was the first person Will called after the exam, and the only person because he took it on himself to inform Jack that his best hunting dog was on a weeks long leave.

 _I’ll owe you some better coffee next time_ , and in Will’s dictionary that was tantamount to heartfelt thanks.

“Hospitals can be such a tedious affair,” Hannibal agreed and set down a bag full of Tupperware on a desk with two chairs. “Care to join me for a meal? I made you chicken soup.”

Will flipped his covers with a sluggishness to his limbs brought on by too much fluids for food. He grabbed the IV stand and dragged himself a little half-heartedly to the chair where he plopped down with a grunt. He looked like shit too, with greasy hair and bags under his eyes.

“I’m starting to think I would have preferred coming here in critical condition. At least I would have been out of it.”

“Bored,” Hannibal asked jokingly as he unpacked the food.

“Unbearably. Almost wanted to call Jack to send me some work.”

“Oh, nothing interesting this week, I’m afraid,” Hannibal said. “Just some BHCI patient claiming to be the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. “That sounds very interesting.”

“The only interesting thing about it will be Dr. Chilton’s reputation after I’m done writing my report,” he slid the opened container under Will’s nose. “Bon appétit.”

Will stared down at the soup and poked the meat with his spoon, its strong scent filling the room. It was a thigh allright, bone and all, but the colour was off. “What kind of meat is this?”

“Silkie chicken in a broth of wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise.” Will raised his eyebrow high and gave him a judging look. “Like I said,” Hannibal humoured him, “chicken soup.”

“ _Fancy_ chicken soup,” Will felt the need to amend the simplistic name. “Could have at least diced the meat,” was said under his breath but loud enough for Hannibal to hear it. The jab was friendly because a moment later, Will flicked him a smile.

“How are the dogs? Not giving you too much trouble I hope?”

Will’s family remained easily charmed with some homemade meals and well placed belly rubs, but herding them in and out of the house was a challenge for both Hannibal’s wardrobe and patience. He had to implore Alana’s help on that one.

“We’re managing. They were very receptive of my sausages,” and there came a muffled laugh from Will that he did not humour. “And they certainly have a gift for making the place dirty. Some spots on the carpet I just can’t seem to clean.”

“Jesus,” Will almost dropped his spoon, the look on his face both frustrated and concerned. “You don’t have to do that, you know? I only asked you to walk the dogs and feed them.”

“I did it because I wanted to.”

There was that look again on his face, like he couldn’t really understand why, or why him. Hannibal enjoyed watching him simmer under the attention, but mostly he enjoyed betting on the moment Will would finally address this thing between them. Far be it for Hannibal to address it himself; where was the fun in that?

But he was tempted and often, tempted to rush in and get it over with. Days had turned to weeks had turned to months and still he’d lay to sleep with torturous thoughts of them dancing around the Dragon. Hannibal had never seen Will quite so beautiful as that time, covered in blood and moonlight. But more than that, the memory of touch stayed with him stronger and tortured him all the more for it. That’s what he missed most, that tender embrace he only had seconds to enjoy, that sweet moment when Will leaned in and tucked his head on his chest. It’d be worth the wait, Hannibal had to tell himself often, it’d be worth the wait if he could get that again.

Hell, Hannibal wouldn’t even complain about the lack of blood. There was a time and place to nurture that murderous little instinct hiding inside Will, but it and everything around it could wait. This change of priorities was almost refreshing, like an artist trying out a new tool.

And for today, what they had was a meal shared in comfortable small talk. Hannibal probed him about his health, and Will gave him more than he’d ask. He probed him about work and got even more in return. Hannibal had the intentions of pulling out the case files and amusing Will with the most unamusing case of plagiarism, though that nurse was a sight to behold, a wonderful homage if he was honest. The offer was met with thoughtful silence that Hannibal assumed was a form of disinterest, and in his assumption, he lost his own betting game.

“I don’t date,” were Will’s sudden words, causal and aimed at the soup more than him. “I’m not interested in relationships, and I don’t go out,” he said between spoonfuls. “I don’t enjoy flirting nor am I receptive towards it,” then he found Hannibal’s eyes, “and here you are, making me doubt myself.”

He paused to scoff softly and take in a few more spoons full of soup, before setting down his utensils and leaning back with a sigh. There was a tired hospital-weary look on Will’s face. “I can’t tell what’s stranger. That, or your interest to begin with.”

When Hannibal was certain Will had nothing else to say, he asked, “Are you bothered by my attention?”

“I’m perplexed by it.”

“But not repulsed.”

Will shook his head, a firm denial for something Hannibal was too brazen to even frame as a question.

“Would it perplex you even more if I invited you over for dinner?” There was a snappy comeback about to fly out of Will’s mouth, but Hannibal caught it just in time with, “After you recover, of course.”

“So, like a date?”

“Yes,” Hannibal smiled pleasantly.

And Will did not. “That thing I just said I don’t do.”

Hannibal pushed his bowl of half eaten soup aside and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “I’m fairly certain I could sway your opinion,” he still smiles.

Will pushed his bowl of almost finished soup aside and leaned forward, mimicking his placement of elbows. “You just don’t know how to quit, do you,” he still did not smile.

“Not in my nature.”

They watched each other for as long as Will could handle the contact, and when he couldn’t he turned his head towards the window and relaxed his gaze in the trees while thinking over his next move. Hannibal was on pins and needles of excitement; he had no idea what to expect next, too many options swimming in his head yet not one good enough.

“A challenge,” Will said as he sat back and turned to look at him again, not quite at eye level but close enough. Hannibal tilted his head to the side as he waited for clarification. Then, Will started counting with his fingers, “No table decoration, no food arrangement, your worst plates and the common man’s cutlery only. Hell, let’s make the meal boring as well, something that doesn’t have a French title and fifty ingredients.”

“Is that all,” Hannibal challenged.

“And wear something appropriate,” Will responded.

Hannibal gave it a thought, amusement painted on his face in broad strokes. “And what reward am I playing for?”

Will didn’t even take a second to think about it when he said, “Your choice.” He put up his hand to stop any words that might leave Hannibal’s mouth. “Surprise me,” he shrugged, “if you pass.”

Hannibal offered his hand for a shake across the table, his grip firm and unrelenting. “I look forward to your recovery, Will,” Hannibal grinned with a wolfish glee.

“Oh, I bet you do,” and Will responded with the same kind of smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting my disclaimer: Blah blah, dyslexic, blah, pardon any word confusion and/or shitty spelling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal prepares a Disney dinner without even knowing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, I'm overworked as fuck, have been for a couple of months now, and my inspiration is in a solid negative state. A complete nadir of creativity. But I can't stand to look at this fuckin chapter for another day so here, have it in all its sorry glory. I hope it brings you some joy. 
> 
> ♫ I know that I let you down, is it too late to say I'm sorry now? ♫ *pop song trumpets*

 

He tried not to hold her previous life against her, all those actions she hadn’t done yet, but had the capability of. In retrospect, it was almost admirable.

Once, Bedelia called him out on wearing a well-tailored person suit, a veil with a few cracks just large enough to keep her interested and looking. This time around she never said, yet still remained interested in this new construct in front of her, this Hannibal that spoke with no hidden affection about one of his _friends_. It was fun to watch her hiding bewilderment and scratching out mental notes she’d made about him all those years prior.

“Tell me more about this friend of yours, whom you’ve… invited on a date?”

She asked questions with palpable interest, and Hannibal couldn’t help but tease her, drawing comparisons to her usually detachment.

“I’m not asking for gossips,” she answered in her leveled psychiatrist voice. “You are my patient and I know you. Or I though it did.” She let slip a frown and said, “I’d like to know what sort of person could inspire such change in you.”

“You wouldn’t like him,” Hannibal said but didn’t stop there, and fed her morsels of interest.

They drank wine during, not after the session, and as it reached a close, Bedelia said, “I’ve heard some terrible accusations have been swung in Frederick Chilton’s direction.” She left it at that with a coy smile.

“Do you think him incapable of said accusations?”

She shrugged. “If one threads such unethical waters, I’d at least hope they’d do better at covering their tracks.”

“Unavoidable, I hear,” Hannibal all but boasted, “the FBI had a professional look into it.”

“I defer to your astute opinion,” they clinked glasses for that final sip, and she seemed very pleased to noticed that the Hannibal she knew wasn’t quite gone, just occupied.

*

Will was mentally preparing himself for weeks, mostly while in the hospital and a few more days out of it, but it made no difference. He was still stuck with sweaty palms, a nervous stomach, and a hundred stupid questions.

He needed a haircut, should he get one? How about a gift? Should he come with a bottle of wine? But he didn’t know shit about wine. He could come with a bottle of whiskey or brandy. Would Hannibal enjoy that? Was that even a proper gift? Were gifts even a part of this arrangement? What should he wear? Turn up in one of his better suits just for a cheeky jest, or go for casual? Change his cologne? Hannibal was not shy about expressing his distaste for it. Was he expecting Hannibal to get up close? Why was the idea so exciting? Should he come early, or fashionably late, or just on time? His own car?  A cab?

The more he stressed about it, the less time there was, so with a mishmash of solutions Will drove off to that thing he said he didn’t do. Not in the last ten years or so. It wasn’t really a date, was it? More dinner than a date. Very casual. Hannibal wouldn’t make note of his changes.

“Is that a new cologne?” Hannibal asked as soon as Will passed him by at the entrance. He looked like he was about to curse or bite his own tongue, but he settled for a shrug before he passed Hannibal his coat.

Will looked at him then, scanned top to bottom. Burgundy pullover, dark grey slacks, some very simple slippers, and Hannibal hoped Will wouldn’t ask anything foolish like if it was all cashmere.

Of course it wasn’t. Not all of it.

“Do I pass?”

“Did you have to shop for it, though?”

Hannibal sighed. “I own casual clothes of my own.”

Will’s gasp was mocking, but good-natured. It didn’t irk Hannibal much, not when it gently slid into a smile.

The dining room was lavishly decorated, as per Hannibal’s usual, but before Will could voice his penalty points, Hannibal stopped him with a measured look thrown over his shoulder.

“We’re not eating here, Will. Don’t be ridiculous.” And he lead them straight into the kitchen where a small round table was set up with two unremarkable chairs. A classic white and red checkboard tablecloth covered it, and on top a very quaint decorum consisting of a simple tall glass filled with breadsticks, homemade of course, and a single lit candle stuck in the throat of a bottle that had probably housed some very expensive wine at some point.

“Interesting,” was Will’s only comment as he scanned the table with a glint of amusement in his eyes, and sat down.

Hannibal came by, not to sit but to set down a thick wooden board with four canapes between them. “Appetizers,” he said, “while the soup cools.”

Will’s eyebrow shot up. “Didn’t I penalize course meals?” Hannibal responded with a determined shake of his head and Will accepted his own failings. “And what are we…”

There was a pause as Will observed the four canapes. They were awfully simplistic and wafting with a cheesy aroma. The small slices of bread, homemade once again but Will didn’t need to know that, were generously buttered before accepting an assortment of three different cheeses and a sun-dried tomato between them. Grilled to a perfect golden finish and cut out to a round shape that just fit the palm of one’s hand, they were perfectly camouflaged bite-sized appetizers, commonly known in America as—

“Grilled cheese,” Will asked and looked wildly pleased as he picked one up, still warm to the touch but not enough to burn as he bit into it.

Hannibal felt a grin splitting his features but he rained it in, there were still three more courses to go and so much room for failure. Even here he couldn’t help the addition of tomatoes. “I’ve put a little spin on it,” he said apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Will shook his head and corrected his previous assessment. “Pizza sandwich,” he said and took on the air of a critic as he observed the last bite between his fingers. “Could have used some oregano. Otherwise, very good,” and he ate the rest and licked his fingers.

“But not excellent,” Hannibal noted.

“Oregano,” Will said with a smile, head cocked, as if it should have been obvious.

The playfulness had Hannibal chuckling and shaking his head. “Something to drink,” he asked when he collected his thoughts away from the image of Will licking his fingers that was maybe just a little intentional. A set of paper napkins were set next to the board, white with colourful dog paw prints. Will snorted as he took one.

“Got any beer?” And what Will got came in an unmarked bottle, set on his table with no glass to drink from, but that lack of a glass wasn’t what had him looking at Hannibal curiously. “You make beer yourself?”

“I do. Alana has her own private reserve and no, that’s not what I gave you. Your taste is a lot simpler than hers, so you get some of my common brews.”

Will stared through the neck of the bottle, probably noting its reddish tint. “I don’t have any complaints for Budweiser,” he said and took a sip, “so I suppose I deserve that.” He took another sip and swirled it in his mouth before swallowing. The final verdict came in, “It tastes suspiciously like beer to me. Kind of like Budweiser.”

There were only so many insults Hannibal could take. “I’ll get the soup,” he said, and Will offered a string of half-assed apologies with a grin.

The soup was a creamy butternut squash with buttered croutons, served in a shocking ugly white bowl. Hannibal had the buy that, made sure it looked like something out of a nursing home. Let no one say he was not dedicated to the task.

“Have you gone to see Abigail,” Will asked as he waited for the soup to cool.

“A task better left for the both of us, don’t you think? But I make the occasional call of inquiry. She’s been adapting.”

Will hummed, eyes set on the meal he kept turning over with a spoon.

“And you?” The words elected a questioning look. “How fares life in the wild?”

“You mean, how fast did Jack materialize after I got released?”

Hannibal grinned. “Yes, that.”

“Took him a day. I almost thanked him for it, honestly. Then I had a look at the files,” the face Will made could have been a response to an insufficiently cooled spoonful of soup, or the chagrin of foul images replicating in his mind. Both were probably true.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“You want to talk about a man turning people into violins over dinner?”

“Will, I was a surgeon. It takes a lot of effort to gross me out.”

Somehow, a talk like that couldn’t ruin a night between them. It paused when Hannibal served spaghetti and meatballs, and Will said something about a lady and her trap, a detail that completely flew over his head but it seemed to amuse Will. Then their morbid talks continued like they hadn’t even stopped. It was almost like it made the night better, more relaxed, a weird hobby shared between old friends.

The last course, tiramisu in a cup, helped sweeten the atmosphere a bit. Their talk shifted to something personal. No more bodies found in dark alleys, now the talk was all about ER patient deaths, and getting shot on the job, growing up under the Soviet regime, and scrapping money for college as a poor Louisiana teen.

It occurred to neither of them how easy it was to talk about those private things until there was very little left to say, and Will had to check his watch. There was almost palpable disappointment in his voice when he said he and to go home and take care of the dogs.

“I’m surprised to say this but you passed. This was… unusual for you, I bet.”

“Challenging too, to lower myself so.”

Will shook his head with a smile. “So then. Your reward?”

“Ah yes, that,” as if he hadn’t spent the whole night thinking of it. Whole week. Whole _month_.

Will stood still, a pleasant smile still lingering on his face as Hannibal stepped closer and closer. He leaned in, a breath away. Will never moved a muscle, didn’t even blink lest it obscure the want in his eyes, an expectation of things to come.

“I want,” Hannibal began, saw Will’s mouth move and lips part, and almost regretted his next words entirely. Almost. “I want you to invite me for dinner at your house. Lavish decorum, finest suit, grandmother’s best china. Do not skimp on the table cloth or the wine, or the recipes, and especially the presentation.”

Will leaned back then, eyes opened wide, a confused half-smile resting on his shocked face. “You—” and he didn’t finish that, possibly an insult, probably an expletive, but he did laugh. And then he nodded. “Does this weekend work well for you?”

“You sure you want to do it so soon? The planning—“

“Does this weekend work well for you,” Will asked again a little louder.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he put on his coat as Hannibal opened the door for him. “Sunday. Same time, my place,” and before Will stepped over the porch and into the chilling night, he placed two fingers on Hannibal’s chin and moved it to the side to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Dr. Lecter.”

It took Hannibal too long to close that door.

 


End file.
